


The Case of the Invented Boyfriend

by OldDVS



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Another one with no sexy times, Just Talking About It, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-01
Updated: 2019-09-16
Packaged: 2020-10-05 05:20:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20483516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OldDVS/pseuds/OldDVS
Summary: Greg has been telling his family fibs.  He gets caught, but Mycroft Holmes volunteers to help him out.





	1. One

“Greg?”

DI Lestrade looked over in time to watch a certain elderly relative of his dash across the street. One hand clutching her silver blue curls, his Aunt Maud reached out with her other hand. But not towards Greg. No, her eyes had zeroed in on Mycroft Holmes, and she grabbed his lapel and did grievous harm to the integrity of his suit as she hauled him forward. Mycroft, who had experience in avoiding incoming disaster, dipped smoothly sideways and eased away. Not, it turned out, far enough.

“Is this HIM!” Maud gasped, relentlessly reclaiming Mycroft by grabbing his shoulder so that she could better peer at his face. “Is this MIKE!”

Greg winced as she reached a new personal best in the screech department and hoped she hadn't actually damaged the suit. Or Mycroft's eardrums, come to that. Mycroft, who was looking at him pointedly, while once again removing himself from the geriatric and yet tenacious grasp. 

Lestrade, whose brain was totally occupied with“ohbloodyhell,” on continuous loop, did not reply. That was good enough for Auntie.

“We have wanted to meet you for so LONG!” she trilled happily. “And oh, Deb was quite wrong! You're very handsome, dear,” she said to Mycroft, and to Greg, “Why in the world did you describe him as an 'average looking bloke?” She shook her head. “He's quite distinguished looking.” She circled him now, looking him over from all sides. “And he has exquisite taste, too. You are a lucky man, Gregory Lestrade!”

Not at the moment. He'd been innocently waiting for Sherlock to locate the room in the building where the murder had occurred, passing the time talking to Mycroft Holmes, when this particular disaster arrived and exploded in his face. How in the world did she think that his Mike could be represented by Holmes? Superficially, maybe. He'd told Alan that Mike wasn't short. Told Ferd about the thinning hair, but he'd never mentioned hair color to anyone. Said to Mama, if he remembered correctly, that the man didn't stand out in the crowd but had a nice personality. Mycroft, to the best of his knowledge, lacked any sort of personality at all.

The problem with inventing a boyfriend is that over a period of a year or two you sometimes forgot exactly what you'd said, and to whom. He sneaked another look at Mycroft. The man looked like he had unexpectedly detected just a hint of arsenic in his tea. He had pulled his umbrella close, folded his hands on top of it, and was Waiting For An Explanation.

Greg opened his mouth to fake one like crazy when his Uncle Thomas pulled up in his battered old car, leaned out the window and said, “Get in, we don't want to block traffic, now do we? Oh, Hello Greg, didn't see you there. Coming to Paula's, are you? Tomorrow! Seven sharp!” Aunt Maud climbed in, slammed the door and leaned out the window to speak, but the car was already zooming away.

“Can't make it!” Greg called after the vehicle as it lurched around the corner.

Mycroft was still looking at him with expectant,'this better be good,' steely-eyed intensity.

Fortunately, Sherlock's head bobbed up from the basement steps and he lifted a hand and shouted, “Here, Gadson!”

“Relatives,” Greg said, as if that explained everything.

“And their execrable timing,” Mycroft murmured back at him as they started across the street. 

If Greg harbored hope that the event would be forgotten, it was dashed the moment Sherlock, John in tow, was on his way back to Baker Street. That very instant Mycroft turned to Greg and said, “You may tell the the tale over dinner. A car will come for you at your home at seven. We will be dining at my club. A tie is required.” When Greg opened his mouth, Mycroft answered his question before he could even say the words. “”Yes, tonight.”

Greg had no desire at all to explain anything, much less after a long Friday spent dealing with the other Holmes brother. He had paperwork to finish before he could go home! But...it was just too much work swimming upstream against the will of Mycroft Holmes. “Fine,” he said abruptly, and lifted his arm to flag down the officer who would be taking him back to the office.

Mycroft headed towards his own car, the driver opening the door expertly before closing it again and hiding the man from sight. Greg watched him go, frowning. Not only was it unfair that he had just lost his relaxing-at-last time, but he was going to have to confess embarrassing things to Sherlock's brother. Maybe if Mycroft swore to never tell anyone? It was either that or lie. And he was pretty sure it wasn't possible to successfully lie to Mycroft Holmes.

Despite being busy with work, Greg's brain kept drifting from the matters at hand to the approaching uncomfortable meal. He hoped the food was something solid, he was already hungry. Lunch had been half of Sally's sandwich and...well, that was it, come to think of it. No wonder he was hungry. 

He wondered how forthcoming he was going to be with Mycroft Holmes. On the whole, he tried to keep his interactions with the man short and straight-forward. They had also usually been a bit one-sided. A phone call, some terse orders, or a pinched request for information, and on one memorable occasion, a warning. They only time he called Mycroft in turn was when Sherlock needed fetching, moving, or reviving. Or dragged into yet another rehab program. 

Ten years he'd known the man, and he didn't know anything about him. Well, he knew Holmes was generally terse, sometimes defensive. Blandly testy. Cool and polite as a rule, but obviously capable of dispensing with the niceties. He occasionally showed up at crime scenes his brother was investigating, for reasons known only to himself.

Probably dines at midnight. Greg decided to eat something before he left.


	2. Two

At seven he was standing on the pavement in his second best suit, having taken the world's  
fastest shower, eaten a piece of pie and half a packet of crisps, brushed his teeth and at the last minute, tucked his reading glasses into his pocket. He'd discovered he needed glasses to read last month and was working on remembering to take them everywhere. He had already lost one pair, For some reason he suspected Sherlock.

The ubiquitous black car pulled up in front of his building and as Greg approached the back door opened. He slid inside, but found he was there alone. At least he didn't have to try to make small talk with Holmes or his assistant. He kept an eye on the traffic by habit. 

When the car stopped the driver buzzed open the window between the compartments and said, “Diogenes Club. Nobody talks in there until you get to the private rooms. Just give your name at the door.”

Bloody Holmes. Greg thanked the man, exited the car and went briskly up the steps. There was a knocker. He knocked. 

“Greg Lestrade, here to see Mycroft Holmes,” he said quietly as he stepped inside the rather small foyer.

The old man in formal attire nodded, lifted a finger to his lips, and angled his head in a 'Follow me,' gesture. They eased through another set of doors and then past an open reading room filled with silent men. Most of them held newspapers before their faces, although two of them held cellphones instead. Texting. No women, he noticed. Were they not allowed to join or just not inclined to be put on display like these gents? Down a hall. Up a set of stairs carpeted in green. Down another hall with an old but well-kept Indian carpet. Portraits every nine feet, precisely hung and without a bit of dust. He wondered if there were Holmes inside some of the frames. Around a turn, up three steps, then another hall, this one with a fancier pattern on the floor. At last they stopped before an unmarked door of dark walnut, varnished to a shiny gloss. He was ushered into an office.

A large office with two desks on one end, one with computer, one without. A comfortable arrangement of three chairs grouped in front of an art deco fireplace was on the other end of the room, a table for conferences in the middle, and under it all a very nice carpet. On one side, a dining area consisted of a small table with two chairs was set off from the rest of the room by a screen. A caterer's cart pulled up to one side held covered dishes from which enticing smells wafted. Mycroft Holmes was just coming through a door on the opposite side of the room, closing it firmly behind him.

“Ah, Detective Inspector Lestrade. Thank you for joining me.” He gestured towards the table, set with heavy silver and crystal. “Do sit down. I took the liberty of ordering a meal which should suit your taste. Wine?”

“That would be nice,” Greg said very politely as he took the chair indicated. Holmes sank into the other one and poured for them both. 

“I do apologize for the Diogenes. It's a bit stuffy, I know, but a necessity. My job forces me to restrict the venues available to me after work hours.”

“Security won't let you pop down to the pub for a beer and a chat?” 

“Precisely. When I began my current job I was asked to choose one location besides my home in which to entertain or work on sensitive issues. A pub was not on the list.” Mr. Holmes gave him a wan smile and picked up his glass. He watched as Greg did the same, then nodded towards the food. “I asked that they just leave the cart and we can help ourselves whenever we like. I was not sure if you would want a waiter to overhear any of your story.”

“Well, it's embarrassing, but not that embarrassing.” Greg sipped and then put the glass down. When Mycroft gestured and stood up, Greg followed him over to the food, and they served themselves portions of lasagne, a vegetable medley and bread. When they sat down again, Greg added, “This looks great.” He regretted the pie he had wolfed down earlier.

They each had a few bites before Mr. Holmes gave him a long look and said, “I assure you that whatever you tell me will remain private and I will not exploit the information in any way. Please, speak without reservation.”

Lestrade smiled just a little, deciding that he could probably risk it. Mycroft Holmes was looking surprisingly human at the moment. “I was married for fifteen years, and I've been divorced for four. Did you know I have your brother to thank for that? The divorce.”

“I find myself unsurprised.”

“Yeah, about the third time he told me that my wife was cheating on me, I actually decided to do something. I mean, I already knew, but he kept opening his mouth about it. I'd been ignoring it as hard as I could, but somehow, when Sherlock began saying it in front of other people, it forced me to confront it. To actually do something instead of just let the anger stew around inside.”

“How helpful of my brother,” Holmes said dryly.

“Yeah, wasn't it? You have to realize, Laura had been...well, it's a pattern with her. With us. She found someone to fill her time when I wasn't home. Blamed my job and me for not giving her what she needed. There was always an excuse. There was always someone she would go see if she felt I failed her in any way. Didn't get the present she wanted for her birthday? Off to the guy at the gym or the new teacher at her school or whatever the flavor of the month was for her. She just found a way to...she justified each instance to herself, made it okay. So in her mind, whenever she was unfaithful, it was just a balancing of the books.”

There was a pause while they both took a bite of food, a sip of wine. There was actually music playing, a low and restful piano piece. Greg hoped to hell there wasn't an actual piano player in the next room.

Greg swallowed and went on. “We'd have this scenario. I'd discover her latest,” he waved his free hand in the air, not giving it a name. “We'd have a fight. We'd air all our problems, what was frustrating us both, lots of shouting, work some of the problems out. She'd vow she's never do it again, I'd forgive her. There'd be fantastic make-up sex. Things would be a lot better and in the beginning I really did believe her. Found out later that if I discovered one of her paramours, it didn't necessarily mean she didn't have another one or two on the side. That, 'I'll never see Anthony again!' might be true, but there was Paul, going out with her the next Tuesday I had to work late. She used to tell them fantastic lies, too. Apparently I had performance issues and was a grumpy old man who hit her.” 

Mycroft let his face show that he found that ridiculous. Greg grinned, “I can be a grumpy old man, but I never hit her. I'd fall asleep without even saying hello when I dragged in the door, but I never assaulted her unless you count the times I came home and threw up on her shoes.” 

“Did that happen often?” asked Mycroft mildly.

“Just twice,” Greg assured him with a grin. They both turned to their plates and ate in silence for awhile.

“I've seen a photograph,” Mycroft said eventually. “A beautiful woman.”

“That was part of it. Why I stayed. And male ego. Didn't want to acknowledge I couldn't keep my mate. That bit's from Sargent Donovan, by the way. One night after Hancourt's retirement party she gave me her alcohol-fueled opinion of what went wrong with my marriage. She said my wife needed the protection of not being able to commit to any of her lovers. She didn't actually want a divorce.”

“And because of Sherlock you finally broke the cycle and started divorce proceedings.”

Greg nodded. “And a total hell it was. Thank god we had no children.” There was an entire story there he was not going to share with Mycroft Holmes. In fact, maybe he'd rambled on too much about his marriage anyway. “It took awhile, but we sold the flat, paid off the bills, split the money that was left and went our separate ways.” Except when she called wanting to give it a try again. That had happened twice. He hadn't done it. Proud of himself for that.

Mycroft refilled their wine glasses and looked expectantly at him. Greg gave a small chuckle and said, “Then the hell began. Everybody in my family made it their priority to get Greg matched up again. It got ridiculous. Introductions, fake meetings when my aunt just happened to be with a certain friend, blind dates my MOTHER set up. Just insane. So one day I told them all to stop because I had found someone. I have no idea why the lover I made up was a man. Well, I do. I think I was trying to come up with someone who was as opposite to my ex-wife as it was possible to be.” And give them a little shock. Oh, the faces! It had been petty of him, but he hadn't regretted it at the time.

Mycroft nodded encouragingly, so Greg went on. “I tried to be subtle about it. Tell one person a bit, another person a few other details. Lots of, 'Mike and I went to the zoo,' and 'I have to go, I'm meeting Mike,' and the like. I tried to keep the descriptions general, and the excuses genuine. Mike and I have a rather casual relationship because we both have busy jobs, but we're been going together for almost three years now and my relatives are starting to wonder why they've never met him. It was getting hard to keep the fiction going, so last week I decided I had to kill Mike off.”

“That seems a little extreme,” Mycroft observed.

“Well, yeah. Although I wasn't going to make a production of it. Mike was going to fall in love with a ballet dancer and move to Boston. Or a saxophone player. Something artsy. So they could all say later, 'Maybe it's for the best. Mike seems to have liked the artsy type, and our Greg is anything but,' and it would have been all anyone in the family would talk about for weeks.”

“Humm. Greg does seem to have a literary bent. Such stories. Maybe that's what caused Mike's interest?” Mycroft's lip turned up just a bit. 

Greg made a face at him. “Ha, very funny.“ He took a sip of his wine and said, “I'll be sad to see Mike go, actually. He was always there when I needed him, and he never got mad when I had to work late. Now, of course, I can't let him run off with Ricardo right away because Aunt Maud saw us together and decided you were Mike.”

“But why would this cause your agenda to change?” Mycroft inquired, then adding aside,“There is cake. And fruit, I believe, if you are finished with the main course?” He rose and indicated that Greg should help himself.

“Because you don't look like a man who would run off with Ricardo. You might invite Ricardo to move in with you, but you wouldn't give up your life to follow him around. You just don't look like the sort of man who would do that.”

“Yet we have already established that Mike is attracted to a handsome face and a nice pair of shoulders. Perhaps he IS led by his baser nature.”

There was a compliment in there somewhere. Greg shook his head and said, “I'm sorry you have become The Face of Mike. I'll have to think up a story that doesn't cause you any problems.” That might tax even his fiction-creating abilities. “I'll have to find another fantasy man, which is a pity because I liked Mike.”

“Not a woman?”

“You know, probably not. I gave up on women after my divorce. I dated a few but the dates were unmitigated disasters. I... always knew I had the potential to, ah, swing both ways, but I had never managed more than picking up a magazine or two, you know, bit of fantasy life.” Greg's face was slowly turning red. “When I was married I would have never stepped out on my wife, and afterward.... I was a coward. It takes more guts than I have to turn a fantasy into something real. To go find a man who could put up with me fumbling about, trying to figure out what...at my age. I had never actually... just easier to play it safe.”

“Yes, I do understand,” Mycroft murmured and pulled his serving of cake into place, precisely in front of him. He looked very thoughtful as he demolished the slice bite by very precise bite. Then he said, “You're making this entirely too difficult. Assuming you don't find the idea of myself as, 'Face of Mike' unacceptable?

“What?” Greg asked, tilting his head to one side in puzzlement.

“I am not an attractive man. I know that I can, through fine clothing, good grooming and a bit of acting, project the illusion of being distinguished. Acceptable in most social settings. When I was younger I could even pull off a dashing air. My presentation might be enough for me to play the part of Mike, if I am too different from your concept.”

“Do you want to actually do that?” Lestrade asked, amazed.

“I believe I do. I have my own reasons for wanting to appear to be part of a couple. Someone I wish to discourage from developing an attachment. More of an attachment, perhaps I should say. She has not seemed to understand that when I say I prefer men, I actually mean I prefer men.”

“Oh. OH!” Lestrade's eyes were suddenly wider than they had been. But really, was he surprised? “So... what you're saying is....”

“That I show up at this event your aunt mentioned. Paula's? Tomorrow. Seven sharp.” There was that shift of his lips again which might have been amusement. “It should take only a few such meetings to clarify matters.” 

“That's...” Lestrade was apparently beyond words. 

“I assume you would allow some simple touches, perhaps a kiss or other form of affection?”

“Have to, I suppose,” Lestrade said to himself. A shiver went down his back.

“It would be my pleasure,” Mycroft murmured back to him, and took a last bite of cake. “If the ruse is successful, it should take only intermittent reinforcement afterward to sustain the illusion.”

Greg was staring off into the distance, his own bite of cake suspended halfway to his mouth. “It...could work,” he said at last as he slid the fork between his lips. A bit of chocolate at the edge of his lip was taken care of with a quick flick of this tongue. 

Mycroft filled their glasses again. “To our mutual benefit,” he said, lifting his glass. The tiny ting of the crystal as it tapped against the other glass made a particularly lovely sound.


	3. Three

The family met at Paula's because she had the biggest flat, reasonably convenient for most of the cousins and aunts. If they met at Paula's, however, Greg's parents were usually not present unless it was the weekend. It was Friday, and they had called to say they could not make it, to Greg's relief. His cousin Anna had announced she was expecting her second child, and Don had a rise at work and that was all that was needed to get the family together. Greg wondered how many people Aunt Maud had already told about meeting Greg's Mike, and how many were here to talk about it, because it seemed rather more crowded than usual. 

Greg arrived few minutes after seven. Alone. Mycroft had called and explained that he would be delayed. He told him that there was a slight chance he would not be able to get away at all, but he thought he could make it by eight. Greg had understood, of course. There was a also chance that something would blow up at New Scotland Yard and he wouldn't be able to come either. But it had been quiet; his day was mostly paperwork and meetings, both from which he had escaped in a timely manner, although he had not had time enough to go home. He made use of his emergency toothbrush, spritzed on a bit of the the manly scent his sister had given him for Christmas, and took the bus because it landed him right at the door.

There was food out when he arrived and he filled a plate and found a seat on the sofa, between his brother-in-law Don and a man he thought his Aunt Kikki was dating. She could do better, he thought as he began to eat. His copper's instinct had been set off by the way the guy kept glancing at him. 

None of the men were talking, although the television, which featured Brazilian football, with subtitles, was turned down. Don, a big, square man, wasn't much of a talker anyway. 

In the next room the younger cousins were gathered and the music was louder than it need be. Several adults raised their voices at the same time and the volume lowered just enough that the chorus of crotchety did not sound again. 

He was almost finished with his food when the dulcet voice of Aunt Maud, eldest of his mother's sisters, came drifting across the room.

“Greg! Darling, I am so glad you could make it, but...where's Mike?”

Was it only his imagination or did he entire house go silent waiting for the answer?

Fortunately his mouth was full and he had a second before he said, loudly so everyone could hear, “He might be able to make it a bit later.” It was the sort of thing he usually said, and none of them probably believed him by now. 

“What exactly does he do, anyway?” Maud wanted to know, as she settled down beside him. There was not quite enough room, but her elbow moved Don a few inches. She leaned forward so an not to miss the answer.

Something Greg had always been vague about. But wasn't it a good thing he and Mycroft had gone over some of these details last night? “He works for the Department for Transport. Pushing papers, as far as I can tell.” Best to make it sound as dull as possible. “Nothing to do with the schedules or times or anything like that,” he forestalled as Don opened his mouth to complain about his commute. 

“He looked like an administrator,” Maud said, subtly reminding everyone that SHE had actually seen Mike. “Probably quite efficient, too. He has that neat, tidy look that accountants have,” she added. “Where did you meet him?” She leaned forward to hear the answer. So did everyone else.

“Work. Through his brother.” Before anyone could ask about the brother, he added, “He might have to come directly from work.” Greg wondered if a big black car would drop Mycroft off in front of the flat and what explanation he could come up with if so. Ride sharing? 

The doorbell rang. Everyone froze, because family just knocked and came in. The doorbell meant...it was showtime. Everyone was going to meet Mike. Greg tried to wiggle up from the sofa, crammed as he was between two substantial bodies, and Aunt Maud pressed a hand on his knee and said, “Carol will get it,” forcing him to scoot back a little to get a better angle on shoving up. Before he could make his escape he sensed Mycroft had come into the room and was standing behind him. To his surprise a long, cool hand cupped his chin and tilted his head back, and a light, if upside down, kiss was pressed to his lips.

KISS his mind was screaming at him. His lips were a little more with it and began pressing back at once. But almost immediately the hand and the lips were gone. “Gah?” he asked, his eyes crossing as he tried to see beyond his forehead.

“Sorry I'm late,” Mycroft murmured in his ear.

“You're not late if there's still food,” Don told him. At the other end of the sofa the probably-dating-Kikki man was pulled back, wearing a look on his face as if centipedes and spiders had invaded his space. The man stumbled up and away front the couch. Everybody just moved down, making a space beside Greg for Mike to be able to sit beside his sweetie. 

“Are you hungry? There's some very good pasta and three kinds of cake.” Greg was looking Mike up and down. Because it was Mike, in dark trousers, blue and gray jumper which brought out his eyes, and neatly combed hair. No suit, no umbrella, no starch anywhere. It was a good look on him, made him look ten years younger. And yet, somehow, taking away the stern dignity didn't improve his looks. He was a plain man without his subtle air of menace, with only his eyes to enliven his face. 

“Yes. No lunch,” Mycroft said to Greg, who stood up, reached down, and took his hand, pulling Mycroft up as well. Almost everyone got up and followed along. Don scooted over to the best spot to see the TV. Aunt Kikki and her date had disappeared. Everyone expected her to return without him. 

“Nothing too heavy,” Mycroft murmured as he was urged up to the impromptu buffet table, where the mostly decimated remains of the feast awaited. It took a committee of four or five to fill his plate, get him a drink and settle again, this time at the kitchen table. Greg was beside him with his own slice of cake, and they were surrounded by a forest of interested people who were not at all inclined to go tend to their own business. 

“So sorry your parents couldn't be here tonight,” Aunt Maud said. Greg was of the opposite opinion but filled his mouth with cake and nodded. 

Aunt Maud was using her status as oldest present to sit down across from Mycroft. There were two other chairs available. Greg watched his relatives silently deciding who got to sit and who had to lean against the counter and pretend they actually had a reason to be in here. Some of them got more food.

One of the cousins lifted his phone for a picture. Greg cut his eyes towards Mycroft, who suddenly had his glass in front of his face. Greg moved to make sure any photo would have quite a bit of his shoulder in the frame by suddenly leaning forward. Mycroft smiled at him and made sure the photo that got taken was less than stellar. Greg grinned, and found it staying on his lips, even though Aunt Maud was now asking questions he was certain Mycroft had no intention of answering.

And then to his utter disgust, his phone rang and he ducked into the hall to have a chance at actually hearing something. It was work, but he didn't need to come in, thank god. A few minutes later he went out to rescue “Mike” and found him in the corner listening to Maud's husband Rolf. Rolf had found someone who hadn't heard all about his gall bladder surgery. How in the world did Mycroft manage to maintain that look of solemn interest? And Greg couldn't go rescue him right away because if interrupted, Rolf just picked up the narrative the next time he had you cornered. 

As soon as he could, he slid up beside Mycroft, who turned to him and said, “Must you go in?”

He sounded so disappointed, but was that a hopeful gleam in his eye? “Not right away. Half an hour,” Greg lied. “Sorry about that.”

“I do understand. But you'll have company on the way there,” Mycroft pointed out with a smile. And to Greg's surprise, a slender hand grasped his. Holding hands. With Mycroft Holmes.

“Very good company.” Greg smiled back and started them towards the door. He knew that it would take all of the half hour to get out. Even the teenagers had come out to get a look at Mike before he vanished again. 

Once in the hallway, Mycroft let his hand go and smoothed down his clothing, looking up to say,“That went well.”

Greg nodded and smiled. “Thanks for...you were perfectly Mike.”

Mycroft nodded, somehow implying that it was only to be expected, which made Greg smile. “I shall give you a ride home,” he said, pulling out his mobile and touching a few numbers with practiced speed. 

“”Not until we're around the corner. That lot are peeking out of the window,” Greg predicted.

Mycroft nodded again. “Of course they are.” They began to move towards the corner, side by side.  
“The evening is still young. Are you willing to playact a little more?”

“What did you have in mind?”

“A certain establishment where your presence by my side will be noted and reported.” A black car drew up to the kerb and stopped. Greg followed Mycroft in, fumbling for the seat belt in the not-as-dim-as-he-expected interior. A smooth hand guided his fingers a few inches until he he could grasp the end and manage it. Click.

“I'm under-dressed for it, aren't I?”

“You are not. Well. Perhaps a tad. But I feel that this will be to my benefit.”

“Showing off your bit of rough?”

“Entirely so. My very bad boy,” he joked.

Strangely enough, that left Greg feeling very, very warm.


	4. Four

They walked two full blocks after the car had left them off. It was an upscale pub with atrocious prices, but as Mycroft had indicated he was picking up the tab, Greg just shrugged and began deciding which of his favorites it would be. 

It was very much like being on a stage. Mycroft was playing Very Attentive Boyfriend. Lestrade was playing, he was sure, Victim About to be Pounced Upon. It was the predatory way Mycroft leaned forward, the actual whisper in his ear. The hand on his arse as they got up to leave an hour later. The very knowing looks they got from the staff. 

Greg played along. It was fun. The flirty looks, the body language that said 'I'm interested and you're special.' Mycroft made him laugh—on purpose so that his head would be back and his neck would be on show? There were hand touches. There were glances.

Turned him on a bit, and he found himself wishing that it was real. That Mycroft would take him home and...well, do what men do who flirted like this with each other. 

Still, he was startled when, after they had slid into the back seat of the black car and it was rolling forward, Mycroft slid his hand onto Greg's knee.

“I have a proposition,” he said. 

“Oh,” Greg managed to say.

“I recall the conversation we had about your circumstances. You indicated that you felt awkward trying to discover the extent of your interest in male partners 'at your age.'” Here, Mycroft rolled his eyes just a bit, slightly mocking Greg for his age-related insecurities. “I propose that I take upon myself the duty of giving you a proper education in these matters.”

“I..uh?” Greg found himself unable to get a decent sentence out of his mouth. Had Mycroft Holmes just volunteered to tutor him in gay sex? 

“It serves both our purposes. It will be very plain to those who are watching me that I am engaging in an affair with you. Because it will be, in essence, true. You will set the course for us, proceed at your own pace with whatever you can feel comfortable with. I will not pressure you or ask for anything that does not appeal to you. And you may stop it at any point, of course.”

Greg drew in a deep breath, coughed, and then ran his fingers through his hair. He looked at Mycroft. Really looked at him. Calm, reasonable Mycroft Holmes, proposing sex the same way he might suggest they go out to eat.

It was a really, really attractive proposition, too. Mycroft looked fit enough, probably knew what he was doing, and, well, he wasn't likely to get a better offer, was he? 

“And, of course, this in no way will impact our other agreement. I will continue to show up periodically in the presence of your relatives and play the part of Mike.”

“It's all very....” Businesslike. “What if I....”

Holmes waited patiently.

“What if I got...too involved, or....” Because man or woman, he knew what he was like when he became interested in a person, and when he fell, he fell hard.

Mycroft gave a self-depreciating shrug. “I'm hardly the type to engender more than casual affection. My schedule insures that I can do nothing on a regular basis, and my security requires that all...encounters occur at my house. I think it will fill both our requirements without becoming unduly complicated.”

Greg thought about it and decided that Mycroft didn't have much experience in relationships, if he honestly thought that. And perhaps he didn't have a very good self image. Or he was lying to himself. Hard to tell. Maybe he really, really wanted a go at Greg Lestrade and thought this was the only way to go about it. Was he not as secure as he seemed to be, or was he trying to make Greg think he was not as secure as he seemed to be, to get him into bed? With those tricky Holmes, you never knew what was being manipulated, or on how many levels.

Didn't really matter. “Right,” he said with a smile. “Let's give it a try.” Because he didn't want to look too eager. Although he was. And Mycroft knew it, too. The bastard. Look at that tiny smirk. But he had an idea that Mycroft had no idea what he was getting into, playing Mike for the Lestrade clan, which means he didn't hold all the high cards he thought he did. Because in his future was Aunt Maud and a Christmas party that lasted two days. And in Greg's future...he lifted his eyes and smiled. Mycroft Holmes and a bed. “And when does the first lesson start?” 

Mycroft looked at his watch. “It will take twenty two minutes to get to my home.”  
Greg thought about it. The implication was that nothing would start until they got there. He grinned the killer Lestrade grin, looked Mycroft right in the eye ans said, “How about now?” He leaned forward, had settling on Mycroft's back, and he pulled him close enough to fasten his mouth on Holmes lips. 

It was an exquisite kiss. Greg knew at once that the education he was going to acquire was going to be outstanding. Those were very talented lips taking over the kiss, Mycroft moving forward snake-fast to have him pinned against the seat, one large hand on his neck. “Impatient?” Mycroft asked when his mouth was free. His fingers were sliding into his hair, rubbing small circles into the skin at his neck.

Greg smiled again. Mycroft probably knew exactly how eager he was. He wished Mycroft was wearing one of his usual ties so that he could use it to yank the man to him for another of those stellar kisses. But just to be flirty he said, “Maybe.”

The very edge of Mycroft's lip turned up. “It might be useful for our fiction to exit the car looking just a trifle mussed.”

Lestrade smiled again. Mycroft was, indeed, going to look more than a little “mussed.” In fact, Greg could do a considerable amount to mussing in twenty minutes. He leaned forward to get started.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note  
There is, undoubtedly, a sex scene to come after this bit of the story. I am not going to write it as those are not my forte, and besides, every one of you is doing it in your head anyway. I have no problem at all with anyone doing/posting their own version of the sexy bits. I may at a later date do a Christmas chapter/separate story, mostly because I want to put Greg's ex-wife into the story. I have been informed that I have too much of a thing for whumping on Greg's ex-wife. It's a character failing, as, while I think it's an interesting dynamic and can be fun storytelling, one has to be careful not to let it degenerate into general women-bashing.


End file.
